No Such Thing as Psychics
by RoseUK
Summary: What if Jane really did have a 'gift? Each chapter will be based on an episode title and an incident of clairvoyance (call it what you will), using some of the symbolism we see throughout the seasons. Not stories, just fragments. (Because I'm a butterfly that can't focus on any one thing for long.) Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.
1. Chapter 1 - Red Dawn

**No Such Thing as Psychics**

**Chapter 1: Red Dawn**

2000. Las Vegas.

_ Fire. He's on fire._ Drumming feet and clapping hands pound the air in the stuffy show room, pouring through his ears and filling him with the thunder of desperation turned to hope. _Jesus, it's hot._ The heat and sweat and breath of human need have thickened the room and he tugs quickly at his collar, trying to release the stranglehold of their euphoria.

A sterile white spotlight flares suddenly onto the rapturous crowd, bleaching them of colour and leaving only a strange silhouette of featureless heads bobbing and swaying in disjointed rhythm. He has the sudden unsettling impression that before him is a sea of obedient minions, in thrall to their master: mindless, eyeless, sightless. Sweat pools rapidly at the shining curls on his neck, and he passes a swift finger to dislodge it. His job is to be their eyes: he is the clairvoyant, the seer, the sighted, or so they think. That is why they love him.

The pressure, the sound, the weight of their fervour presses down, down, down on his mind; for a moment, one endless moment, he is blinded with sheer panic. Faint, broken fragments of Amazing Grace pierce his mind, enmeshed in a discordant version of Bach's Prelude in C Major. The melodies intertwine like metal on metal, brash and dissonant, a cacophony of distorted beauty sending pain surging through his head and a wail up through his throat and into his mouth. _No, no, he can't scream, not here_. He forces it back down, and the salty tang of iron fills his mouth; the strong, unmistakeable flavour of a blood that isn't his and that he can't explain.

_It must be the heat, burning bright bright bright._ A panic attack of sorts: he is feeling more torment, more anguish, more soul-crushing despair than he's ever felt in his life before; indeed ever imagined he could feel. And strangely, the feeling is painted a bright, ruby red. He closes his eyes briefly in sublime suffering, and when he turns his agonised gaze back onto the still-cheering crowd – it must only have been seconds – a crude, unfinished loop of vicious grinning crimson slashes through their faces. He blinks.

_Trick of the light._


	2. Chapter 2 - Strawberries and Cream

**Chapter 2: Strawberries and Cream**

1985. Carnival, Idaho.

Patrick loves nights like these. Magical midsummer carnivals full of sparkle and noise and atmosphere, when even his notoriously callous father is in good spirits and finally releases him from duty with a rough clap on the back and maybe even a couple of extra bills stuffed into his palm (if he's lucky). Then Patrick can wander aimlessly with his best girl Angela, just the two of them, partaking in all the pleasures of the fairground, almost like regular people. Tonight the sky is a deep inky warmth punctuated by myriad twinkles of silver and gold and the brash rainbow flares of the fairground lights. Shouts of laughter rise like heat into a wide benevolent sky, the old metal rides squealing and screeching in excited pleasure, like the little kids shrieking in thrilled terror in the Ghost House.

"Oh look, Patrick!" cries Angela, her eyes brightening. "Fruit stall! Mm! Let's go get some strawberries!" And Patrick smiles, because he too loves strawberries, all lush red flesh and summertime, and steps forward. A delicate fragrance fills his nose: sweet and simple and innocent as a child. He feels suddenly content. At peace, even. Full of pure, sublime love. He glances over at his beautiful Angela, whose rosebud lips are already closing down around a bright red berry. Suddenly, desperately, he wants her to stop. Suddenly, desperately, the immaculate love is transmuted into an unbearable shuddering sadness: so strong, so consuming, so animal that it nearly paralyses him. It is unbearably familiar, like a memory, only it's not a memory he can see or hear, only smell. And it reeks of gunshot and tears. He reaches down deeper, fumbling for clarity in his panicked mind, but there's nothing down there except a terrifying blankness.

"What is it? What's wrong?" says Angela in alarm, staring at him, the poisoned fruit poised half-eaten between her fingers.

"What? Nothing, nothing," he lies with a hasty grin, to Angela's quite obvious suspicion, and soon the lie becomes the truth. He walks forward unsteadily and flips the seller a quarter for one of the man's sun-ripened oranges. He has always liked the scent of zesty orange. He thinks it smells of life.

Note: Terrible at maths (sorry for incorrect timeline/costing!)


	3. Chapter 3 - Red Sails in the Sunset

**Chapter 3: Red Sails in the Sunset**

2004. Malibu

Witching hour and the bedroom window is wide open; the white curtain flapping and billowing like the sail of an ancient ship bound for worlds of myth and legend. The night is hot and slow and rich, when the creatures of dream and enchantment bestir themselves to cast their spell. The soft plish-plash of the Pacific laps rhythmically in Patrick's ears, soothing and insistent, calling him to join it in the deep. He does not resist. It is easy to slumber, here by the sea.

And he dreams… of the ocean.

He is standing alone on a pale golden beach, the sand chilly between his toes as the ashen light shifts and heaves and withers into darkness. Slowly his eyes adjust to the looming contours of a large, black rock to his right. There is a figure reposed upon it; a shapely form from whose throat comes the most exquisite, transcendent song he has ever heard. The figure rises smoothly and slinks down the rock, slipping quickly to the shore. And her enthralling voice beckons to him on the breeze.

Patrick follows, gripped, and walks with no hesitation into the expressionless sea. The water is freezing, but he doesn't care. On and on he wades, until the water is everywhere and he can no longer feel the steadfast anchor of the seabed. And then he begins to sink. Not fast, like a stone, but steadily, inexorably, carried down gently by the strong swell of the current. He comes back to himself for a moment, struggling to break free, to swim upward towards the pallor he knows is the sky, but the invisible arms of the water gods hold tight. A beautiful face appears just out of reach in the cool, enveloping water: dark, feline, seductive. Tendrils of ebony hair stream like snakes around her head and her eyes are a curious charred black: an absence of light, a void he can't peer into. Her mouth splits into a smile, cat-like. He is something of a cat himself; he recognises her animal nature and feels a strange affinity in the gloom.

The creature glides unhurriedly away from him, lithe and lissom, her movements at one with the swell. She is like water herself, fluid and impossible to grasp.

"Wait!" His voice bubbles soundlessly in the liquid.

He wants to swim after her, right down into the indigo depths, as far as he can go, but he knows that he will drown. Pulled under by the heavy promise of an unknown desire he knows she will never grant.

She turns. Her smile grows wider, warmer. And then she slides into the void.

Patrick opens his eyes. The window is wide open, the curtain flapping and billowing in the murmuring breeze. He glances beside him, where the reassuring curves of his beloved wife rest serenely under the pure white sheet.

_Note: So here's Lorelei presented as the dangerous siren of legend, luring Sailor Jane on with false hope and "singing like a bird". I don't think that sirens were supposed to swim themselves (they had wings), so I turned her into a kind of mermaid to fit what I wanted to say. I added the rock because we saw Lorelei hiding behind it in the actual episode (and going for a swim). _


End file.
